


Fade's Songs

by nicoleiacross



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicoleiacross/pseuds/nicoleiacross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cole settling into the Inquisition. Kind of. His days around the keep. (Mild spoilers for Asunder, and Inquisition if you haven't gotten through Crestwood! Nothing really major?) Shipping if you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fade's Songs

**Author's Note:**

> A scribble, me trying to figure out how to write Cole. I read Asunder and I needed to give him happy things, but first he needed to be poked.
> 
> This is two separate posts on my writing blog, but I went ahead and combined them. 
> 
> Note: Inquisitor is present but I tried to keep them as neutral as possible so that any Inquisitor could be imagined in their place. Please let me know if it comes across odd ;^;

**i.**

Cole tries, desperately, to leave with everyone else.

Lysette runs towards the gates, sword already drawn; Flissa, Minaeve, and Adan were gone moments earlier; and, Seggrit and Thren he hadn’t seen but he knows they’ve left. He hears it, well before he sees anything. Well before the explosion on the other side of the gate, before Cullen and the Herald barely catch the stumbling mage.

Cole wants to follow the townspeople, because he hears it. He hears the eerie, resonating songs from the Western Approach. Louder, so much louder, layers on top of layers—

_Rhys screams, somewhere far away. He can hear him over the songs, wishes desperately that he could move to help him. He hears Old Woman—what was her name, what was her name, she had a name, not Faith, Faith was a different part, Rhys was sad when she died_ —

Sera darts past him, purposefully shoving her shoulder against his—a test, always a test, see if he’s real, if she doesn’t phase through him—and Varric straightens him before he topples over. There’s worry when the dwarf looks up and Cole becomes painstakingly aware of how violently he’s shaking.

“You ok, kid?”

His throat feels dry. It shouldn’t be possible—he knows it isn’t, that’d be daft—but he can’t find his voice. Ahead, he hears a trumpet of horns—Blackwall and Cassandra, a rallying call over the sounds of spells being cast—and The Iron Bull barking orders back to his lieutenant. He hears and feels, well before he sees, a wall of ice from Vivenne, Venatori speared on the tips; a streak of lightning from Solas that travels down to the banks of the frozen lake, paralyzing those caught in its path; and, the pillars of fire raising up around the Herald.

Cole hadn’t liked them at first—too much like Adrian, too much heat, repressed anger when confronted… but level-headed. Seething, sharp remarks laced in sarcasm, but willing to listen, to try understanding—

Varric gives him a firm shake and then shoves him, just before a fireball flies over them. His tone is just a little frantic when he tries to regain Cole’s attention this time, “Cole!”

Cole doesn’t answer though. The fighting drowns it out—just a little; it’s easier to focus on spells and the songs of the Fade with so many mages around him. He gives Varric a quick, apologetic look just before he makes himself vanish. Varric and Sera have dismissed it as a smokescreen. The mages all suspect something else—they sense him disturbing the Fade whenever he does this. If they survive, maybe he’ll explain.

His daggers find their way into the back of a Venatori, just below the shoulder blades, and twist upward in a sharp motion. His smokescreen fades and he barely ducks before Cassandra’s shield meets with his face.

“Do _not_ sneak up on me, Cole!” She sounds angry; but, Cole can hear otherwise. He knows she knows. He saved her. She’s angry because she almost attacked him—she’d known the mage was behind her, Cole had just beaten her to him.

He scampers away to keep from distracting her.

He can do this. He won’t run again.

**ii.**

Everyone is cheering as the snow buries the Venatori. Everyone but Cole. He starts to smile, just a fraction; he never gets to.

A reverberating, shrill roar fills the sky and the cheers stop. Cole immediately clamps his hands over his ears, a terrified yell ripping from his throat. The songs are loud again—pounding in his ears, the way Templar pound their swords against the shields, the way the Fade pulses when an army marches. Someone knocks him to the ground, away from harm, just before the trebuchet collapses beneath the flames.  Maybe the explosion throws him back, he isn’t sure. Everyone scrabbles to their feet—Sera’s terrified swears fill the air (the only one who knows what an Archdemon looks like, the only one who recognizes the taint for what it is), angry curses from the rest of them.

“—and it wants to break us!”

It takes him a few minutes to realise he’s managed to choke something out. He doesn’t know what he said, but it effectively silences most of them. The Herald uses the chance to order everyone back to the gates.

It’s hard to run. He’s shaking again. Every flap of the wings is a violent reminder of what had happened. Every roar makes his head pound with the songs.

Somehow, they make it back. Everyone does, even the townspeople. Normally, Cole would be delighted—he would have helped. He tried to, but… right now, he’s too shaken up. The songs are still loud. Still circling above the Chantry, waiting. Hungry.

The new mage is helping the loud Chancellor stand— _Dorian and Roderick_ , he chides himself, trying to use the tiny lectures to ground himself. He promised Rhys he would learn names, he would learn. He wouldn’t be that way again. They both stumble and Cole helps them steady.

The Herald is deciding who to take for this suicide run; Cole makes himself as invisible as possible without actually vanishing. He shrinks to hide behind the Dorian and Roderick. _I’m not running_. _I won’t be helpful, not if all I hear is the singing. I can help more here, I can help him walk—I can speak when he can’t. I am not running_.

The reassurances don’t help and he can only cast a terrified, longing look over his shoulder as the Herald shoulders a new staff after a testing spin (mumbles about the shattered one out by the old Requisition table) and heads out, only three of the inner circle following.

**iii.**

Skyhold is… strange.

There’s a dull song, somewhere deep in the stones.

Cole can’t exactly place it; he blames it on the lingering song from Haven, his head still pounding in protest, even after the long journey. More so, it drowns under the sound of people in the courtyard finally succumbing to their wounds. He wants to go to them, but people are coming. They feel so angry—angrier than normal. Vivienne and Cassandra are always angry around him, but this is _more_.

Vivienne corners him before Solas and Cassandra can stop her, “ _Leave_.”

“Lady Vivienne, _please_. Let Solas finish—”

Cole recoils instinctively and, as soon as Vivienne’s wrath is turned on Cassandra and Solas, draws himself under the protective blanket of the Fade. _They won’t notice me. They won’t notice me. Can’t see me. …Please remember me—just. Don’t notice me_. He curls up next to the stairs, close to Cullen. The Commander freezes when he does and looks around, uneasily, before he shakes it off. If he remembers, Cole might apologise later, but for now….

He hunches in on himself when Vivienne calls him a stray puppy. Adrian had thought the same—worse, really, when Rhys told her what he’d done… she hadn’t wanted him to stay. He paws, restlessly, at the ground in front of him. The way the cats in the Spire used to do when they were restless, before they chased the trails on the robes of Apprentices and Enchanters alike. Evangeline had commented on it once. He thinks she was trying to distract him from the journey back to the Spire.

The Herald joins them soon enough—Inquisitor. Inquisitor now, so many names. More than the others. Cole wants to explain himself—and, he tries. He really does, but it’s so hard to think straight with so many dying around him. He circles the tiny area as he talks; the demonstration seems to be enough to explain what he can’t. The Inquisitor has questions—what happened before, how did he end up in Adamant, what could possible interest such a unique spirit?

Cole doesn’t particularly consider himself unique—not in the way people think. Spirits _can_ learn… that’s all there was to it. If other Spirits could learn—wanted to learn, they could be like him. Maybe. Their natures probably wouldn’t survive. He shakes the thoughts off and tries to explain his life before. His life in the Spire. Rhys and Evangeline.

He feels panic when the Inquisitor asks if he wants help finding them.

_No_.

But… yes. He misses them. He misses Rhys. Evangeline, too. Sometimes he misses Adrian. Not often, but she was… fun. Sometimes. Rhys had fond memories of her. He misses Pharamond, too, sometimes. He wonders if he would have gotten better.

“Let him _forget_.”

Cole can miss them all he wants. It doesn’t change the fact they know him as a monster, if they remember at all. Evangeline might not. Rhys might. Adrian doesn’t. He’s sure of that much at least, just as Leliana didn’t remember him. He’s glad. It makes it easier to help her.

**iv.**

Technically speaking, Cole isn’t _supposed_ to be in Cullen’s office. He’s also not _supposed_ to pull the Fade over himself so people ignore him. But, they never tell him anything, otherwise.

He’s tried to listen in before; it didn’t work. Too many of them had old hurts, deep and digging deeper, that drowned out the present. But he heard something, once. Something that caught his attention.

“ _Maker, what have they done. The red lyrium is spreading too far—what if Leliana can’t get to them in time? What if we send troops and they kill them?_ ”

It had been enough to pique Cole’s interest; enough that he waited for Cullen to be summoned to the war room—hopeful and desperate, dreading; a strange mix of emotion that made Cole’s head swim for a few minutes afterwards—and crept into his office. He cloaks himself, just to be safe; in case someone else wandered through the office to drop off a report, to pass through to their next post, for whatever reason, and glances at the worried report at the top of the pile.

The edges are wrinkled, deep creases protesting where the report had been gripped too tightly, read too many times, snatched up when it was put down barely seconds earlier.

_…being taken, injured but alive. Rhys—_

There’s a painful pounding in his chest—fear, mostly. Normally, he’d find the notion just a tad silly. He’s a spirit. He doesn’t have a physical heart that pounds in fear. An imitation, perhaps. But, right now….

He might be upset—just a little, he’d told the Inquisitor not to pursue this, but… they’re in danger. They need help.

Approaching footsteps shake him from his thoughts and he quickly escapes through the opposite door, barely remembering to set the report back down before he does.

The Inquisition will save them. _They will_.

**v.**

Weeks later, Cole’s finally calmed down.

He’d been… terrified. Giddy. Delighted. Thankful. Mostly terrified.

_He remembers._

The news of their rescue had been welcome. That they remember him though—or. Rhys did at least. He wonders if Evangeline does.

Still. They’re alive and Cole finally wills himself back into his normal routines.

**//**

Skyhold is impressive.

That’s the first thing Rhys really takes note of. He tries to throw an amused smile to his companion, hopes it isn’t as tired as he feels, “Well. Better than the last few castles we’ve been in.”

Evangeline gives an agreeing, amused snort and pulls the hood of her cloak just a little bit closer, “Let’s make this quick, Rhys… we don’t want to cause any trouble. We’re just dropping off reports and getting supplies.”

Rhys nods in agreement, easily falling into step at the Templar’s heel and trying not to draw too much attention to himself. (A Templar should be normal enough, given their alliance with the Inquisition. He’s still not sure how well a mage would be welcomed, especially one that voted _for_ Independence.)

He still finds it odd.

Normally, orders from Skyhold came specifically with Leliana’s seal and very few pleasantries exchanged. The latest message, however, bore the Inquisition’s seal. The writing had been different and had inquired their well-being and living conditions before requesting that they _personally_ bring the newest reports. The two had concluded the letter came from the Inquisitor around the time there were promises that their presence would not cause a stir; and, if it _happened to_ (which, Rhys was still quite convinced it would, even though Evangeline tried to remain optimistic on the matter), the matter would be dealt with swiftly.

Sure enough, the Inquisitor’s signature had been at the bottom and their personal seal. Rhys tries to remind himself to ask about the seal between bouts of doubt. Honestly, though, it rather sounded like a plan to behead both of them—it still does—but, neither of them had reason to argue, so… here they were.

He startles when he nearly walks into Evangeline’s back and scowls at her for stopping without warning before he takes a quick glance around her to see just _why_ they stopped.

Leliana levels them with a void expression; there had been a moment of shock, then a frown, and now she was just looking at them. Something about the expression says she is annoyed, though. She smiles after a beat of silence (a smile that makes Rhys want to slide back behind Evangeline; but, he stands at her shoulder instead and tries to smile back), “Ser Evangeline. Enchanter Rhys—or. It is… First Enchanter now, isn’t it?” Something akin to sadness crosses her expression, “My reports say you took Wynne’s place as First Enchanter.”

“That is correct.” Rhys tries to ignore the uncomfortable knot settling in his stomach. He doesn’t want to think about his mother, really. Evangeline closes a comforting hand over his shoulder and he lets out a slow breath to regain himself, “We won’t be staying long, Sister… we promise not to cause too much trouble. Drop off the reports, we’ll take any new orders you may have, restock, and we’ll be on our way.”

“Oh, it is no trouble at all.” Leliana tilts her head, “I do wish you would stay a bit; but, I was merely curious. Reports are normally brought by couriers, not soldiers. Was there something valuable?”

“What? No, nothing of the sort—” Evangeline starts to explain; but she’s cut off by a delighted voice to their left.

“Ah! Wonderful, just the two I wanted to meet—ooh… Leliana. Hello.”

The ginger’s smile becomes thin when she turns on her companion, “ _Inquisitor_. Might I have a word with you?”

“… I promise there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this—”

“A private word. _Now_.”

The Inquisitor visibly deflates and nods; despite it all, they offer a warm smile to Evangeline and Rhys, “Sorry. We’ll speak in a moment. I… may have forgotten to tell Leliana I, er… requested your presence, terribly sorry, please excuse us for a moment.”

The pair stare after them for a moment; Rhys takes note of the staff and relaxes a little. If the Inquisitor is a mage, perhaps he doesn’t need to fear too badly after all. He sends Evangeline a wary smile, “Well. That was. Illuminating.”

“…Very.” Her expression is one of evident confusion, “Why send for us though? We’ve passed dozens of Templar and even a handful of mages—the Inquisitor being one. What could two more possibly add?”

“Their heads.” Rhys deadpans; he still laughs when she swats at him in annoyance, “Well. You’re rather skilled. Perhaps a new trainer? Not sure why they’d ask for _me_. I’m sure First Enchanter Vivienne’s given them a name of _everyone_ who voted for Independence by now, if Sister Leliana didn’t already know.”

“You’re still a healer.” Evangline points out, gently. The tension is slowly leaving her shoulders as she relaxes and she finally lowers her hood, shaking her head a bit and letting the mountain breeze offer some small comfort. A small sigh slips by her lips, “Maybe we should stay a few days. A bit of rest before we head back?”

“If they don’t throw us out.”

When they glance at Leliana and the Inquisitor again, the agitation in the spymaster’s body language is evident. They both quietly agree that they’ll _probably_ be thrown out before the day ends.

**//**

Cole has been squirming in this hide above the tavern for almost ten minutes and he can’t figure out why. He wants to go ask Solas or Varric, but that would mean _leaving_. And every time he goes towards the door, towards the stairs, makes any attempt to leave his spot, he gets even _more anxious_.

It’s a maddening feeling and he finds himself not enjoying it in the least.

Eventually, anger hits him. Hard. Quiet, seething anger, like a chess board falling apart.

_I can’t believe you brought them here, they should not be here, this is **dangerous**_.

Cole blinks and _that_ finally gets him to move. He’s still anxious but he’s curious now, too, and the curiosity wins out because it’s _very_ rare for Leliana’s anger to reach him.

He pulls the Fade around him before he reaches the stairs and effortlessly passes through the Tavern without anyone noticing him.

The courtyard is brimming with emotions—curiosity, admiration, excitement, anger, betrayal—

Cole stops, just before he reaches the stairs below the interior entrance.

Anger is normal. People fleeing from Crestwood, survivors that lost loved ones in Haven’s fires, at the Conclave… but this isn’t just anger. This is malice. This is murder. Intention. It gives him a sinking, horrible feeling that reminds him of Lambert. He shakes the thoughts away—tries to, anyways—and focuses on not tripping on any of the loose gravel on the stairs. He doesn’t like thinking of Lambert. Thinking of Lambert makes him think of—

Something inside of him plummets and his head spins, violently, when he spots a painstakingly familiar woman near the gates. Black hair pulled back in a tight bun to keep the thick locks from her face; the proud shine on the Templar armour, even with the scruffs, dents, scratches of battle; the strong jaw offset by kind eyes and a light, almost invisible smile.

She has a companion next to her, still shrouded beneath a cloak; but, Cole doesn’t need to see to know.

_Rhys_.

He feels dizzy. Light. Floating. Like he’s too far into the Fade, ready to flit across the imagined plains with the other wisps.

Malice brings him crashing back to reality and he starts looking for the source. Mostly out of fear. The anger is aimed _at them_.

Rhys has his staff in his hands—a thinly veiled walking stick, if anyone passing by were to ask—but he’s leaning on it. Tired. Exhaustion from the trip, from the fighting. Perhaps alert, but fighting tired never ends well. Evangeline’s arms are crossed, one hand resting on her sword, ready to draw; but, her attention is on Leliana and the Inquisitor more than it is around her.

Cole spots the source. An older man, scarred and heavy with memories of wars. Of fires and ice and lightning. Of the red swords on the breastplates. A regular soldier—not a Templar, not a mage. Just a civilian, someone who’s seen too much death, too many friends die, for a war no one asked for.

The closer he gets to them—specifically, to Rhys, hanging just behind Evangeline’s shoulder—the louder the anger gets. Names accompany the turmoil and Cole almost can’t see through the blind rage. What he does see is the shine of the noon sun reflecting off a shiv. The feral snarl snaps Evangeline and Rhys both to attention. Cole knocks the man to the ground before either of them turn and his blanket fades for just a moment when he growls at the man, “ _You_ _won’t hurt them_.”

His own anger diminishes when he feels the eyes on him and he feels fear as he quickly draws back into the Fade, barely remembering to wipe the man’s memory. He doesn’t vanish fast enough; Rhys may be startled but he definitely saw. He’s still staring where Cole vanished; so, he runs. He runs before either of them can think to try catching him. He’s not sure if they could, but he doesn’t want to find out.

He can hear worried questions behind him, from Leliana, from the Inquisitor—none of that matters.

He doesn’t get far before a nauseating wave washes over the entire courtyard.

Rhys and the Inquisitor both cry out, pain and shock, and Cole falls to the ground with an anguished yelp. He immediately curls into a ball, hands over his ears, head against his knees, and lets out a whimper.

Dispel alone is enough to make him dizzy; from Vivienne, it’s enough to knock him over. Topped with a wave of Purge from Cassandra, it’s enough to make him writhe as he desperately searches for his connection to the Fade.

“Cole!”

The Inquisitor’s voice, mixed with Rhys, mixed with Varric. He can feel Vivienne’s glower from her balcony—in passing, he feels relief that it’s aimed at the soldier and not him for once. Later, he realizes it’s not too surprising; Vivienne favours Templar, and anyone attacking a Templar would likely incite her wrath—but he’s in no condition to react to anything. He screams when someone grabs him, pulls him upright; it’s little more than a strangled sob.

“It’s all right now.”

Fear and pain ebb into safety. Warmth. Relief. The smell of rain. Rhys always smells like rain. Cole’s never really figured out _why_ , but he does. It’s familiar, though and he desperately buries himself in that familiarity as he slowly manages to regain some semblance of balance. He still feels ill—dizzy from the simultaneous sever from the Fade—and terrified. But this is safe. For now.

He jumps when someone else suddenly joins them. A stronger scent. Like the desert. Cold armour penetrates the little warmth his clothes offer and he gives a mild whine, trying to wiggle more into Rhys’ hold, “You’re cold.”

Evangline laughs—choked by emotion, but a laugh none the less—and just hugs them both tighter, “Don’t be like that.”

Rhys laughs, too.

It’s the first time Cole’s heard it in a long time. It’s enough to make him smile and forget everyone else around them, just for a little while.

**//**

Cassandra’s already hauling the soldier away, a dark scowl on her face and a snarl threatening to fall from her lips. The Inquisitor gives the man a look of pity before sighing, two fingers finding and pressing tenderly at the beginning throbs of a migraine, “Well. That could have gone better.”

Leliana doesn’t look remotely amused, “If you wanted to meet them, you should have told me. We could have arranged for you to travel, instead—”

“This wasn’t for me.” The Inquisitor passes her a sidelong glance; a smile is forming when the glance drifts to the small pile in the middle of the courtyard, “I think it was worth it.”

“That as it may be,” Leliana drawls after a moment of observing the scene—calculating, wondering just _how_ beneficial this reunion could be, no matter how touching—and returns her attention to the Inquisitor, “We should move them somewhere that isn’t the middle of the courtyard. Somewhere a bit more private perhaps? Least they attract more unwelcome attention?”

“Not a terrible idea… Cole doesn’t have a room of his own, though. Could you and Josie find somewhere for them? Away from the barracks. They can use my quarters until then.”

“You’re certain?”

The Inquisitor shrugs, “I’m heading out to Crestwood, anyways. Hawke and the Warden aside, our newest pilgrims have had… disturbing tales about the area. Blackwall wants to investigate and I’m inclined to agree. We’ll be heading out shortly.”

“As you say, Inquisitor.”

**vi.**

Rhys wakes up to someone pushing at his shoulder, insistently,and lets out a quiet groan, trying to turn away and bury his face in Evangeline’s shoulder. He grumbles when the shaking persists, “Cole… I know spirits don’t sleep but  _humans need to_.”

“The sun is up though.” Cole keeps pushing at his shoulder, the bandages around his hands scratching against Rhys’ skin. He makes an insistent noise in his throat, “It’s past breakfast.”

Rhys swats at him, absently, and tries to pull the blanket over his head, “ _Help_.”

Evangeline just laughs. She’s used to being up fairly early; really, she normally just keeps still so Rhys can sleep a little longer when they have the luxury. She nudges him back onto his pillow before she sits up and sends Cole a warm smile, “Good morning, Cole.”

The attention is enough to distract Cole and he climbs over Rhys—ignores the startled swear when his knee digs into Rhys’ side (maybe on purpose, not that he’ll admit it) in the process—and sits on his knees in front of Evangeline. He at least remembered to kick his shoes off first and just waits, patiently, as the woman tries to straighten his hair from the tangles and knots that it always seems to be in. He’s tried brushing it. Dorian had tried, too, after cornering him one afternoon. Evangeline tries every morning.

She sighs just before she gives up and her hands fall to rest in her lap, “One day I’ll figure out how your hair gets so tangled, Cole.”

“Your hair is tangled, too.” He points out, frowning lightly, “So is Rhys’.”

“Yes… but our hair can be untangled.” Evangeline makes an idle gesture for him to move so she can swing her legs over the side of the bed. She stretches when she stands and makes her way towards the vanity, making her point rather clear when she begins running a brush through the thick black mess of bed hair. Rhys finally sits up in that time, rubbing tenderly where Cole had stepped on him.

“Cole—er. The mage… Cole. His hair looked like that, didn’t it?”

“Yes.” If anyone else were to ask, this might be a sensitive subject. With Rhys and Evangeline, though, Cole has no problems answering. He rocks a little in his spot as he answers and picks at the bandages around his hands, “He didn’t get to wash it after they forgot about him. Thick with grime and dirt and blood. From traveling, mostly. Blood from hands that pounded against the door and walls too long, nails broken from clawing at bricks in hopes of finding a loose one—oh. Question. I answered it. I think. Did I?”

Rhys nods. He never interrupts, just lets Cole get what he needs to out of his system and waits. Waits to make sure there isn’t more, “We could try washing it. I know spirits don’t sleep… I doubt they need to bathe. …Do they?”

Cole just gives him a long, blank stare, before he answers in a slow, questioning manner that isn’t sure if Rhys is serious, “Spirits don’t smell the same way humans do, though?”

“Spirits actually smell like something?” Evangeline looks over from where she’s finally managed to get  _some_  of her hair untangled. At least one side. She’s moved to working on the other side, “I know your clothes always smell like whatever you’ve gotten into. The desert, the plains, the forest… but, usually the kitchens. Seeker Pentaghast  _has_  told you to stop taking pastries, Cole.”

“But she never gets any if I don’t.” He looks confused, like this should be obvious. More so when Rhys gives a quiet snort and Cole wonders if he’s missed a joke between the two.

Evangeline just sighs and shakes her head, letting the argument go. She knows she won’t win and she gives Rhys a pointed look when he stifles another laugh behind a cough, “Either way. You at least know to wash your clothes… so… what exactly does a spirit’s scent consist of? Or do they all smell like stolen blueberry pastries?”

“I don’t… think there’s really a way to… uhm.” Cole thinks on it, “We can’t really. Smell each other? But some things can. Darkspawn can.” His voice is quiet when he says it. He remembers trying to hide in the Western Approach. So long as he was still and quiet, they stopped paying him mind; but, the second he moved, they turned to sniffing the air. Rhys gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and he stops thinking on it, “I think… the Blight gives them an idea of what the Fade smells like? I don’t know how to explain it. Humans all have specific smells though. Rhys always smells like spring rain. Not like the humidity in the Mire or Crestwood. Nicer. Evangeline smells like the desert. The little flowers we found on the edges of the Wastes. Embrium smells different in the desert, did you know that?”

“And… this conversation just got really odd. Your turn.” Evangeline turns back to her vanity, obviously trying to figure out if that was a compliment or not. She continues to watch them in the mirror.

Rhys, meanwhile, is struggling not to burst into laughter and gives Cole a reassuring pat on the shoulder when he looks even more confused than before, “Well, it can’t hurt to at least  _try_  giving you a bath, I suppose.”

“I can’t swim. They always take baths in the rivers when we’re traveling. The Inquisitor likes swimming, even when they others warn against it. Sera swims to annoy Vivienne, The Iron Bull joins her on occasions. He has stories. He fought someone who drowned because their armour was so heavy. Varric can’t swim, I don’t think. I can’t swim, either, is all water that deep?”

“Not at all. Puddles aren’t that deep, for example, and I’ve seen you go pouncing through those without thought. Of course, we’d need something bigger to give anyone a bath. We’ll figure something out.” Rhys ruffles his hair. A sign of affection. He still looks curious when he does and gives a mild hum, “When you manifested, you managed to imitate the texture of hair. Somehow I always manage to forget that… if that much is true, it should also be much softer when we manage to get it washed.”

Cole nods, absently, and moves off the bed when Rhys does. The mage stretches, rubs his side again and gives Cole a mild scowl (Cole just does his best to look innocent; it’s enough to get Evangeline to laugh again) before he goes to find clothes to pull on. Cole takes that time to make the bed up. He’d never really understood why people made their beds. The blankets certainly didn’t protest being left in a nesting heap and they were often disturbed within hours as someone settled in for a nap. But, it’s a habit he’s slowly getting used to. Evangeline used to be the one who made the bed every morning, being the first one up and generally ready well before Rhys was; Cole finds that when he makes the bed—and he’s learned to do it exactly the way Evangeline does so that she doesn’t need to correct him—that they generally have more time. It’s not much… but it’s a small, helpful gesture that’s just as much for himself as it is for them. The more time they have, the more time he can spend with them, after all.

_**♥**   **tbc** **♥**_

> I need these three to be happy. Desperately. Rhys and Evangeline are Cole's parents and that's all I have to say on the matter and that book  _hurt me badly_.
> 
> So... Cole wasn't actually there when Wynne saves Evangeline; but, when talking to the Inquisitor, he specifically says "she died for a Templar he loved(loves?)" so. I think Cole went to her funeral. He was too scared to approach Rhys or anyone else there, but he went. I don't know if he knows who actually killed Pharamond, though. But that's babble for later, I need to go to bed before I write more. which I will do later but now is bed time;;;


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